


small as a world and large as alone

by jugheadjones



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Homeless Jughead, M/M, csa mention, i havent edited this at all, its jarchie but its not like romantic jarchie, jughead calls fred "dad", the imperfect family of archie fred and jughead rly means a lot to me and thats why this is so bad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-18
Updated: 2017-02-18
Packaged: 2018-09-25 10:15:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9815123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jugheadjones/pseuds/jugheadjones
Summary: a series of drabbles about jughead, archie, and fred andrews post episode 4.





	

**Author's Note:**

> "the snow doesn't give a soft white damn who it touches" - ee cummings

**saturday**

 

“Hi, Jughead.” Mr. Andrews answers the door looking as tired as Jughead feels. His eyes have deep shadows under them, his hair tousled as if he’d just woken up. “Archie’s not coming to school today.”

Jughead shifts from foot to foot on the porch, the backpack currently carrying everything he owns slung over one shoulder. “It’s Saturday, Mr. Andrews.”

“Oh.” His best friend’s dad shakes his head as if to clear it. “Sorry. You’re right. Do you want to come in?”

“Can I see Arch?”

“I’ll ask if he’s up to it.” Fred holds the door open. “Come on in.”

Stepping through the front door into Archie’s home is as familiar a reflex as threading the movie reels at the Twilight. His body knows how to do it as instinctively as how to swim – no, how to _breathe_. Archie’s lived in this house for the whole of their shared lives, and he’d been here long before he knew how to swim. He waits in the front hall as Fred climbs the stairs to Archie’s room, eyes falling on all the things he’s looked at a hundred times before: the family photos, the framed painting of a hockey rink, the small picture of their first dog, the one Jughead hardly remembers.

Jughead’s used to the front hall being a mess of sports equipment: Mary always kept a tidy house while she was here, but it settled like dust over the hall every time Archie came home from school anyways. Today it seems disturbingly neat. Knowing Fred and Archie, it’s all just been shoved in a corner, but the cleanliness makes him sad anyway.

Fred still hasn’t returned, and Jughead wonders what’s being said up there. He cracks the closet carefully open. Sure enough, it’s full of the crap he’d been expecting: soccer balls, fishing stuff, skis, mitts and gloves and scarves, camping gear – but he also sees Archie’s letterman, hanging alone, and the sight stabs him with a brief wave of unease.

His backpack is getting heavy and he sets it carefully down. He had a ton of protein bars in there, and the last of the snacks he’d pilfered from the drive-in, but neither feels particularly appealing to him and he considers, and then decides against asking Archie’s dad for a piece of toast, saying he’d left too early to eat breakfast.

A creak on the stairs jolts him out of contemplating his empty stomach. He looks up, but Fred shakes his head wordlessly as he descends the stairs, and Jughead only nods, hoisting his too-full backpack back up on one shoulder.

“Jug—“ Fred’s eyes are warm and sad. “I’m sorry. He’s just not feeling well." 

“It’s okay.” He lets Fred approach him, feeling glued to this hallway where the family photos were framed, where the closet was stuffed with baseball gear. He should go to Pop’s now, kill time working on his novel, but suddenly he only wants to sleep, to lie down and never get up.  

He lets himself leave, lets Fred hold the door open for him, reaching the bottom of the porch steps before he turns at the sound of his name.

“Jug.” Fred is leaning on the doorframe, looking at him. Two of his shirt buttons are buttoned wrong.

“Yeah?”

“Don’t stop coming by, okay?”

Jughead nods, and it hurts in ways he can’t explain. “I know. I won’t.”

 

**archie**

He listens to the front door close downstairs. There’s a long silence, and then he hears his father’s feet climbing to the second floor again. He closes his eyes again, trying to feign sleep.

“Archie?" His dad's voice is cautious. "Can I come sit with you?”

He pretends he hasn’t heard, but he knows from the stillness of the room that his father hasn’t gone away and is still hovering in the doorway like a vampire waiting for the invitation. He feels somehow worse now that he’s sent Jughead away, even though he had had his mind made up to do so from the moment he’d heard the doorbell.

“Fine,” he says eventually, half-muffled by the pillow. “Sure.”

He listens to his father pick his way through the dirty clothes on his floor toward the bed. It sags as he sits carefully down.

“How are you feeling, Arch?”

He doesn’t know how to answer this question anymore, so he just grunts into the pillow. Fred settles a hand gently, cautiously on his arm.

“I wanted everything that happened.” He’d meant the words to be composed, decisive, but the touch on his arm starts his nose running into the pillow and his voice comes out thick with emotion. “I _wanted_ it.”

“Archie,” says his dad softly, and then nothing else, his voice breaking just enough to make Archie afraid to look at him in case he was crying. Gently, Fred’s hand starts to smooth circles into the back of his hoodie. “Hey,” he says softly. “I know it’s hard to make sense of all this. And when you get older, you’re going to keep trying, and it’s only going to get harder and make less sense. And I can’t take that off of you.”

He pauses for a moment, and Archie can picture him staring at the closet, trying to put the words together. “I wish I could, Arch. I wish I could do this for you. But you will always have me, and Jughead, and people who love you and care about you, and are here to help you. And it’s going to be all right, I swear.”

He keeps rubbing circles on Archie’s back. “The next time he comes back, I want you to let him see you, okay?”

Archie lifts his head a millimetre off the pillow. “Why?”

“Because closing yourself off from other people is how you get worse, not better.”

“I’m sorry, dad.”

“You,” says Fred with uncharacteristic vehemence, “have nothing to be sorry for.”

He gives Archie’s back a gentle push. “Archie, roll over.”

“Why?”

“I want you to look at me.”

Archie sniffs loudly and rolls over onto his back, letting his dad meet his eyes. Fred’s are mercifully dry.

“Archie, you take all the time you need. Just don’t think you have to be alone.”

“Okay.”

His dad’s hand moves to his hair, gently smoothing it back. “Archie, you’re wonderful. Don’t let anyone tell you you’re not. Least of all yourself.”

He can’t speak anymore and just nods, letting his dad pull him up into a hug like he was six again, letting himself be rocked. 

 

**monday**

Despite the promise he'd made, Fred looks surprised the next time Jughead turns up at his door. “Hey, Jug. Archie’s not – “

“Not coming to school today. I figured.” Jughead lifts a paper bag of takeout. “I just brought him a milkshake. But tell him he doesn’t have to have it, if he doesn’t want.”

Fred’s smile is so bright that Jughead doesn’t want to look at it. “I’ll let him know. Come in.”

Fred takes the stairs two at a time this time, an annoying habit of Archie’s that’s clearly hereditary. Jughead drops his bag in the same place as Saturday. He half wants to open the closet to check if the jacket’s still there, but he knows it will be. He knows from texting Betty that Archie hasn’t left all weekend. He’s been texting Archie too of course, but got only radio silence.

When Fred comes back down his smile is gone, and Jughead already knows the answer. “He says he’s not ready for a visit.”

“Will he take the milkshake?”

“No, and he says sorry.” Fred has his wallet out, fumbling out a twenty. “But I will, if you’ll let me.”

“I don’t need that.”

“Come on, I know how expensive Pop’s burgers are getting.” Fred tries to put the money in the hand that’s holding the bag. “I’m sure your allowance only stretches so far.”

 _If he only knew._ Jughead stares at the money, trying to will himself not to need it so much. Fred’s voice had been light, teasing, but he still feels on edge, like he’s on the verge of being found out. “The milkshake was only three.”

“Jug, come on. It’s a thank you.”

Jughead relents and takes the offered money, pocketing it with a silent prayer of thanks. This could at least cover a bit of his tab at Pop’s. The owner was letting his tab stretch ridiculously far, but goodwill only lasted so long.

“It’s peanut butter.” He murmurs, handing over the bag.

Fred looks at him for a long time. Jughead hadn’t noticed how bloodshot his eyes were before.

“Hey, I just put the kettle on, do you want to come in?”

“I, uh-“ Jughead glances down at his feet. “I should get going.”

“You’ve got an hour to kill until first period. I’ll give you a ride if you want.” Fred smiles but it doesn’t quite reach the eyes. “What do you say? Keep me company while I drink this.”

Jughead can’t think of a good reason quick enough, and the voice in his head that wants desperately to sit in a familiar kitchen with Fred Andrews for an hour persists and wins out. He nods, still looking at his shoes. “Okay.”

Fred looks relieved, and leads him back into the kitchen. The kitchen, too, hasn’t changed since they were young, and it feels oddly like stepping into a memory, like a hundred sleepover mornings and after school snacks and failed attempts at cooking have all coalesced into one.

Fred takes the milkshake out of the bag. “You want a sip of this?”

“No, I’m good.”

“How about hot chocolate? I remember how you like it. Extra hot and-“

“The big marshmallows.” Jughead finishes for him. Fred smiles as Jughead seats himself at the table. “I never buy anything else.”

He waits patiently while Fred rattles around the kitchen, pouring a mug of hot chocolate. Unconsciously, he finds himself tilting his head up and looking at the ceiling. Archie’s room was right above them.

“I’m sorry about the drive-in, Jug.”

“I know. Forget it.” He wants to steer the conversation away from his job as much as possible. Fred was notorious for putting two and two together, and Jughead hasn’t washed the clothes he’s wearing in awhile.

Fred sets a mug in front of him and slides in at his end of the table, unwrapping the straw that goes with the milkshake. Seeming to sense Jughead's unwillingness to talk about the drive-in, he nods at the takeout bag. “You know, peanut butter was always my flavour. Mary got strawberry, and Hermione got chocolate, and your dad-“

“How are you?” Jughead blurts out suddenly, which is a weird thing to ask someone’s dad, but he’d needed to steer the conversation away from his own father as quickly as possible. Fred looks taken aback, as though he hadn’t considered the question might be asked.

“I was going to ask you the same thing.” He pokes the straw decisively through the top of the milkshake. “I guess I’m…”

There's a long silence where Fred seems to realize that no word can possibly attempt to answer that question. At last he swallows, looking at once ten years older. "Can I tell you something, Jughead?" 

"Yeah." 

Fred meets his gaze, jaw set so tightly it looks painful. “I keep thinking about her somewhere else. With someone else’s son.”

Jughead doesn’t know what to say to that. “Oh.”

Fred is shaking his head. “She said she’d leave town. And I just…” He clenches his hand into a fist and releases it. “— let her go.”

“You were trying to protect him.”

“I did the wrong thing, Jughead.” Fred takes an aggressive sip of his milkshake.

“Because it hurt Archie less in the moment.”

“How do you know so much about it?”

“Betty told me everything that happened.”

Fred smiles. “I mean about what’s right.”

Jughead shrugs. “I dunno.”

They sit on either end of the kitchen table, Jughead’s mug releasing steam up in the air. He stares down at the marshmallows, hungry, but somehow unwilling to lift the mug to his lips.

“I just know one time,” Jughead begins, delivering his address to the marshmallows, “We were going to have a movie marathon on Halloween and stay home from the dance. But then this girl asked him, and he asked me if I minded, and I said no, because I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. But it hurt my feelings and things were shitty between us all November. Worse than it would have been if I just told him I minded.” He slides his fingernail along a groove in the table, remembering how Archie had made it carving pumpkins last year. “But I couldn’t help it when it was happening, because he was right there and I couldn’t stand hurting his feelings even for a second. And sometimes you just forget what’s right to do.”

When he looks up, Fred is looking at him with warmth in his eyes.

“You’re a smart kid, Jughead. But it doesn’t change what I did. Or didn’t do.”

He takes another long sip of his milkshake, staring out the opposite window. Finally he sets it down and shakes his head decisively. “Mary wouldn’t have stood for this for a moment. She wouldn’t have let this happen.”

Jughead blows on his hot chocolate. “Do you miss her?”

“All the time.” Fred gives him a sad smile. “But sometimes it’s just better for two people to miss each other than to be around each other. When you grow up, you’ll see what I mean.”

“I feel grown up.”

“Don’t.” His smile is still in place, but serious now. “You two are so young, Jughead. You have your whole lives ahead of you. There are so many good things that are going to happen to you two. You have so many opportunities. You hang onto them, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Your life is just starting, Jughead.” Fred takes a solid drink of the milkshake. “I promise you.”

“Okay.” Jughead says again, taking a gulp of the hot chocolate. He’d expected it to scald him, but it had been sitting long enough to be warm. It’s like swallowing pure liquid nostalgia. It tastes exactly like every winter he’s ever spent here.

Fred is staring out the window, still talking. “I think the worst part of being a parent is when your kid finally realizes that you don’t know everything. That you’re just human. You guys are there now.” He smiles weakly at Jughead. “It’s the worst part of being a kid too, isn’t it?”

Jughead knows what he’s talking about. “Yeah.”  
Fred’s gazing out the window like it has all the answers. “When I was a kid, I thought my dad knew everything. And now I feel like I can barely do for Archie what my dad did for me.” He lifts the straw out of the lid and stabs it back in, spraying a few droplets of milkshake over the table. “Alice Cooper was right about me.”

Jughead shakes his head. “I don’t know what she said, but that’s not true.”

Fred grins. “You don’t have to comfort me, Jughead. That’s my job.”

His marshmallows have become sludge in his cocoa, and he sucks a few of them down.

“I keep thinking about something I said to him one day.” Fred has Archie’s habit of toying with his milkshake straw, and he does it now, the plastic lid squeaking. “He was talking about Mrs. Grundy, and I said something about how good looking she was. And I didn’t even think.”

“It’s called toxic masculinity, and it’s not your fault.” Jughead swallows another greasy marshmallow. “You were probably trying to connect with him.”

“But what if I made him think it was –“

There’s so much hate in his eyes that Jughead has to speak up. “I dunno. But it’s not on you.”

Fred drops his gaze to the lid of his shake, looking as though he were trying to convince himself.

“I just wish I could be inside his head sometimes. I heard him say things about himself that day that I had no idea he was feeling, or- thinking – and –“ He shakes his head again. “There’s this point where your kid starts being his own person, and you can’t count on anything. And you have to let them do it. But—“

If there’s an end to that sentence it disappears, and Fred takes the lid off the milkshake to swallow down the dregs.

“Being a dad sounds hard.”

“It is.” Fred nods, a half-smile on his lips. “But it’s good work if you can get it.”

Jughead contemplates this. “I should get to school.”

“Do you need a ride?”

“I’ll walk.” Neither of them had wanted to leave Archie home alone.

“Okay.” Fred drags Jughead’s empty mug toward him. “Don’t get into trouble.”

“You know me.”

“Come back again,” Fred asks him as they stand in the front hall. “I’ll talk to him, see if he’ll let you see him.”

“Don’t rush him.” Jughead shrugs his backpack back on.

“You sure you don’t want a ride? That looks heavy.”

Jughead thinks about the protein bars. “I’m good.”

“What’s in there?”

“Science project.” The lie comes so fast it even surprises him. Fortunately, Fred has a lot on his mind and accepts it.

“Do you remember that project you two did in grade three?”

“The moldy bread?”

Fred laughs. “You were so sure you were going to win the science fair. And then you came third place to-“

“Reggie Mantle and his volcano.” Jughead smiles at the memory. “Yeah, I remember.”

He feels something unspoken pass between them, and he finds his gaze landing on the stairs, wishing his best friend was there. Wishing he could talk to him just once.

“He’ll be okay.” says Fred. “These things take time.” He nods toward the street. “There’s Betty, why don’t you catch up with her. Tell her Archie’s not coming.”

He doesn't want to go, but he has nothing more to say, and nothing more to offer. "I'll be back," he says, and Fred nods. "I know."

 

**tuesday night**

This time Fred leaves him in the living room while he goes to check on Archie, and Jughead spends the time studying the childhood drawings that are framed on the far wall. There’s a few he recognizes and some that he doesn’t, but they’re all unmistakably Archie. He remembers a field trip they’d taken to an art museum in elementary school, and he and Archie had spent the whole time snickering about how indecipherable the abstract art was.

He’s so distracted by the memory he doesn’t notice when Fred enters the room. “Hey.” Jughead spins around, and Fred gives him a nod. “He says you can go on up.”

This time it’s Jughead who takes the stairs at top speed, and he’s been up and down these stairs so many times that he doesn’t even falter at the crooked top step.

Archie’s lying on his back on his bed, tossing a tennis ball up and down in the air, but Jughead can tell that the nonchalance was all for show, that until a minute ago he had probably been lying dead still in the mound of blankets that had been pushed to the floor. “Hey Jug,” Archie offers, voice hoarse.

He opens his hands for the ball, but it doesn’t come. Which is probably just as well, because Archie, the athlete, would have whipped it at him with finger-breaking force. Instead, Archie sends it spinning back up toward the glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling.

“I don’t really want to talk.” The ball lands in his palm with a soft thwap.

“I didn’t really come to talk.” He takes off his shoes and sits down quietly on the bed, letting his bag land on the ground. Archie makes a face at the loud noise.

“What have you got in there, rocks?”

“Your homework, idiot.” Jughead swings his legs up on the bed and lays down beside him. “All your teachers gave it to me, I didn’t even ask.”

“I don’t want to do it.”

“I’ll do it for you.”

“Jug-“ Archie lets the ball fall from his grasp, rolling over onto his side. “Can we just lie here and not talk about anything?”

Jughead blinks, surprised. “Sure. Whatever you want.”

Archie flops back onto his back and Jughead moves closer to him, so that he can feel Archie’s body heat against his side. “Is this okay?”

“Yeah.”

Jughead stares at the constellations on the ceiling, remembering how they’d had Moose put them up, because he was the only one tall enough.

“If you want to turn the lights off,” Archie murmurs, “you can,”  
  
“If we turn off the lights will the stars glow?”

“Nah, they’re whacked. They’re too old.”

Jughead reaches over to the football lamp and turns the light off. The stars glow a bit. Just enough.

They’re lying there in the dark when Archie whispers: “I’m sorry I didn’t text you back.”  
  
“I thought we weren’t talking about anything,” Jughead whispers back.

“Okay. But I’m sorry.”

“You’re forgiven.”

“Okay.”

In the dark, one of Archie’s hands closes around his.

“Don’t leave me, okay, Jug?”

“Okay,” he says softly, squeezing the hand in his. “I won’t.”


End file.
